


And Nothing Will Ever Be the Same

by missanomalous



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-08
Updated: 2012-09-08
Packaged: 2017-11-13 20:15:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/507317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missanomalous/pseuds/missanomalous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Santana thinks this fight has gone on long enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Nothing Will Ever Be the Same

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gilligankane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gilligankane/gifts).



> Reposted from old LJ.

Santana Lopez likes sex. No, she loves sex. She could be in the Sex Olympics. There are few things she enjoys more than seeing her reflection in the mirror on her closet door, watching herself ride Puck, or Scott or whatever self-centered jagoff that’s underneath her who probably won’t get her off before he’s finished. She looks smokin’ hot, back arched, hair wild, catching her own self-satisfied smirk as she grinds down. She feels no moral dilemma while doing the act itself, but somewhere, deep in her perfectly toned body, there’s a nagging voice talking about self-esteem and the sacredness of sex – one that was screaming like a banshee when she was thumbing through a rack at Victoria Secret, arms full of bras that were up a cup size from what she used to buy.  
  
She figures she’ll quell that voice eventually, crush it like it was the grasshopper from Pinocchio, maybe starve it out by being a bitch until it stops pestering her. But until then, she has that little bastard mostly quieted down. The human side of her is under control; it breaks free sometimes, smashes through her bitchy, slutty cheerleader cliché facade when she’s singing, or with Brittany, or when her family is sitting down for their once a year family meal at Christmas. But she’s getting better, getting harder. It’s easy to be hard. The rocks hit, but they bounce right back off.  
  
Sex makes it all easier. Sex is a means of control. She has half of the William McKinley population at her beck and call, groveling at her feet to please her. Not that she’s had sex with that many people, a handful really, but the illusion of sex is more than enough. A flash of ass, a slight brush in a not-so-crowded library aisle, and they turn to putty, ready to be molded to her liking. Maybe Santana doesn’t like sex so much as she likes control.  
  
No, fuck that. She really does love sex. Holy, carnal, hot, sweaty sex. She’s more than happy to blow the new kid Sam after he joins the club, thrilled to scratch her nails down Puck’s chest after she gets her new rack, pleased as punch to swipe Finn’s V card in a cheap motel room, and she is overjoyed at the idea of letting Brittany bring her to an earth-shattering orgasm whenever she pleases. It’s sex and it’s control, they come hand in hand.  
  
She goes down on Sam because she sees Quinn’s cheeks turn pink when he turns and asks her to be his partner and she has to make sure that Quinn doesn’t get anything more than more sloppy seconds from her. She digs her nails into Pucks skin as he touches her newly endowed chest because she wants to leave a mark, like the small ones on under her arms from the surgery. She settles herself on Finn’s lap as he gasps and groans (lips brushing against hers far too gently for a sleazy motel room hook up (because, God help him, he tried to make it  _romantic_ )) because she needed a younger, inferior male. And Brittany…  
  
Well, Brittany’s different. Try as she might, Santana can’t deny that. Brittany is the one who gets to run her fingers through Santana’s hair. Brittany is the one who gets to rest against Santana’s shoulder, an arm thrown over Santana’s waist as she settles in for the night. Brittany is the one who gets to say ‘I love you’. Brittany is the one who gets to hear it said right back to her.  
  
With Brittany, it’s not about control. She just loves Brittany. She loves to kiss her, loves to fuck her, loves to sit in her fat day sweats with Brittany and watch Edward Scissorhands and hold the other girl’s hand when she cries at the end. Brittany is her best friend. Always has been. That’s how it always will be. Santana has already decided.  
  
But she gets scared sometimes. Scared enough to push the only friend she has away when a tide of gay panic sweeps over her. But, really? Melissa fucking Etheridge? No. Not cool. If Santana wants to keep her control over the halls of William McKinley, she can’t have people think she’s some skeezy, softball playing, lady baby making lesbian. There’s already one little Dutch boy with his finger in the hole of the dam that glee has put in her reputation; she can’t afford another one. Cheerios and blowjobs only protect her from so much.  
  
Santana gets a shocking dose of reality, however, when she realizes she has no control over Brittany whatsoever, something she hadn’t realized it until Brittany denied her in the hallway. Not wanting to sing the duet should have been fine, Brittany was supposed to understand that Santana wanted her free breadsticks and so Mercedes was her only option. So maybe she shouldn’t have jumped the gun and thrown Brittany’s suggestion back at her. Maybe she shouldn’t have said she wasn’t there because she was in love with Brittany.  
  
Now, if she hasn’t mentioned it, Santana loves sex. And without Puck around, it’s been harder for her to get some regular play. Not that Puck was fantastic in bed, but he was better than any of the other assholes she’s called up in the past. And with Brittany freezing her out, she’s left with nothing except a week of empty nights, with nothing or no one to fill them. She has no friend, no fuck buddy, nothing.  
  
So Santana decided to change that. She decided to get her friend back. She singled Paralyzed Petey out in the lunch line and told him he meant nothing. That she knows Brittany and he would be smart to realize that she knows when someone means nothing to Brittany. A few hours later, she’s sitting in glee with a smirk on her lips as Schue announces Brittany and Artie’s resignation.  
  
So, after a crushing defeat of a clearly rigged contest, she collects enough of her pride to walk out the door, trailing behind Little Lord Fauntleroy and Barbra Streisand before catching up to Brittany, reaching over, and clasping the blonde’s pinky with her own.  
  
“You made your point, and I made mine. We’re done, okay?”  
  
Brittany looks over to her, but says nothing. She says nothing as Santana goes on about how the retarded contest was rigged and that Mr. Schue just had a thing for Juno and Lady Lips and that Brittany better watch out because he probably has a thing for blondes since his wife left him. She says nothing as the bell rings and Santana announces that she’s coming to her house tonight. Brittany just stares blankly ahead, and when Santana glances back, the blonde is frozen in place, gazing after Artie as he’s wheeled down the hallway by Finn.  
  
Santana thinks it went well, all things considered. She goes home and eats dinner with her little brother, does her English homework, and then hops in the car. Her skin is itching to be touched. She misses being revered like she so clearly deserves to be. She wants to fuck. She sprints up the walkway, breezes past Brittany’s little sister, and practically slams the door behind her when she reaches the dancer’s room.  
  
Brittany is lying at the foot of her bed, a steak knife in her hand as she carves a groove into the wooden bedpost in front of her. She doesn’t acknowledge Santana’s existence, not even when the Latina shucks off her underwear and climbs on to the bed, just keeps slicing into the wood. Santana rolls the blonde over and straddles her leg, leaning down to kiss her jaw.  
  
“Finally. You have no idea how long it’s been,” Santana murmurs, humming her approval as she slides against the other girl’s thigh. Brittany, underneath her, lays unrelenting, staring up at the ceiling with blank eyes. Santana grinds down harder, biting at Brittany’s earlobe and reaching up to palm a pert breast through polyester, only to be slapped away. Her eyes go dark but Brittany remains unmoving, her blue eyes empty as they stare past her.  
  
“Tell me something, Britt,” Santana coos, her cheek against the pale one next to hers, hips slowing to a halt, “shouldn’t half a man only get half a notch?”  
  
Brittany shrieks and in a flash Santana finds herself being rolled over and off the bed, falling and landing on the floor with a painful thunk, blunt nails digging into her upper arms and blue eyes glowering down at her. Santana groans and struggles, but remembers that she may be the domineering one, but Brittany is bigger. Brittany is all long limbs and dancer muscles that she’s spent years honing and perfecting, and Santana is left with a very angry, beautiful blonde who has four inches on her, looking ready to murder someone.  
  
“You ruin everything,” Brittany hisses, more threatening than Santana could ever imagine her to be. This isn’t Brittany. Brittany is sunshine and rainbows and puppies. Brittany doesn’t speak like she has acid dripping off her tongue. Brittany doesn’t hold someone down until bruises form. Brittany Pierce doesn’t look at Santana Lopez like she’s the most disgusting being on this planet.  
  
Santana waits for a slap, for more hateful words, for anything. But Brittany’s grip eventually lessens and her eyes drop and she stands up and rolls back on the bed, and Santana can hear the sound of steel scraping against wood again before an almost non-existent whisper comes from above her. “You ruin everything.”  
  
Santana lies on the floor for a few minutes to collect herself, arching her back and swearing silently at the ache. She sits up and peers over the side of the bed, sighing at Brittany’s back.  
  
“Look,” Santana starts out, stretching from side to side, “I’m sorry, okay?” Brittany just keeps slicing, digging the groove deeper, arm making long steady movements like a violinist moving a bow over strings. Santana rolls her eyes and slides onto the bed behind the blonde, sighing again and running a hand down her back. “I don’t like sharing you. You know that.”  
  
“You don’t want me; you don’t want to share me. Make up your stupid mind,” Brittany mumbles without a glance towards her.  
  
“I missed you. I came over here because I missed you.”  
  
“You came over here because you wanted to get laid.”  
  
Santana groans and grabs Brittany’s wrist, taking the knife from her and throwing it on the floor and rolling the blonde over again. “You’re my best friend.”  
  
Brittany’s voice is so soft and pained that Santana has to strain to hear it from less than an inch away. “Best friend. You told my boyfriend that I was just using him for his voice and he dumped me and made it sound like I raped him or something. You ruined everything.”  
  
“I’m… sorry.”  
  
“I really liked him.”  
  
“I know,” Santana whispers, “I know you did. And I’m sorry.”  
  
“How am I supposed to trust you, S?”  
  
Santana sits up and pulls Brittany with her, settling herself into the blonde’s lap and wrapping her arms tightly around her best friend.  
  
“I don’t know,” Santana murmurs back, her lips ghosting over Brittany’s, nose nuzzling a porcelain cheek. “But you have to find a way because I can’t lose my best friend.”  
  
“We didn’t have to sing Come to my Window,” Brittany breathes back. “We could have sang–”  
  
“Some k. d. lang?”  
  
“Shut up,” the blonde says quietly, turning her face to avoid another kiss. “I just wanted to sing with my best friend.”  
  
“You wanted to sing a song by the dykiest dyke who ever dyked in the music industry, Britt. That’s not us.”  
  
“I like Melissa Etheridge. I love you. Why does it matter if she’s gay?”  
  
“Because people will think we’re gay.”  
  
“Well,” Brittany starts softly, eyes meeting Santana’s gaze, “I’m gay for you.”  
  
Santana sighs and rests her forehead against Brittany’s. “But we’re not gay-gay. People will think we are if we’re singing songs like that in front of everyone.”  
  
“Everyone already knows about us, Santana. We tell them all of the time. We make out at parties all the time. We had a three way with Mike Chang at homecoming last year.”  
  
“It’s different, Britt. When we do stuff like that, it’s to show off to people. To let them see how hot we are. Guys love it when girls make out, guys love thinking they might get to join some day. It makes us look hot.” Santana readjusts and wraps her legs around Brittany’s middle, reaching up and tugging her ponytail until blonde hair cascades across her hands. “When we’re hooking up here, when no one can see us and when no one knows, it’s just for us and that’s special and I want to keep that special so it doesn’t get wrecked.”  
  
“You don’t want to keep it special; you want to keep it quiet. You don’t want anyone to know about us because you don’t want people to think you’re gay for me.”  
  
“Yeah, well, that too,” Santana hums, teasing her nails across Brittany’s scalp. “I… I like where we are. That we have other people around, but that we’re the ones who matter at the end of the night. You’re my best friend and you’re more and that’s awesome as shit. And I love you and your boobs and your soft skin and pretty hair, but I don’t want to lead the gay pride parade down Main Street next year, okay? I’m not ready for that crap.”  
  
Brittany’s eyes grow hazy as she pushes her head to meet Santana’s hand, words forming slowly on her tongue. “You’re not just here so I can help you digest your food?”  
  
Santana shakes her head. “No.”  
  
“But you don’t want to make lady babies with me?”  
  
“We could try,” Santana muses thoughtfully, tugging at a golden lock. “But we’re gonna need to do a whole lot of scissoring and hope for the best.”  
  
“I don’t like when we fight,” the taller girl whispers, hands wrapping around Santana’s waist to pull her closer.  
  
“Me neither.”  
  
“I don’t feel like scissoring tonight.”  
  
“We can just cuddle.”  
  
Brittany rocks forward until she’s hovering over Santana, catching a plump bottom lip between her own. “And maybe there can be some sweet lady kisses too.”


End file.
